“Let the doctor do it,” he said reluctantly.
“Whoever does it,” said Doyle, “it’ll have to be done at once. My nephew said that on account of the way we are pressed for time he’d be glad if the words of the inscription was wired to him to-day.”
“It would, maybe, be better,” said Father McCor-mack, “if you were to do it, doctor. We’ll all be sorry that the words don’t come from the accomplished pen of our respected fellow citizen, Mr. Gallagher——”
“I’ll not do it,” said Gallagher, “for I wouldn’t know what to say.”
“Write it out and have done with it, O’Grady,” said the Major. “What’s the good of keeping us sitting here all day?”
“Very well,” said Dr. O’Grady. “After all, it’s not much trouble. How would this do? ‘General John Regan—Patriot—Soldier—Statesman—Vivat Bolivia’.”
“We couldn’t do better,” said Father McCormack.
“What’s the meaning of the poetry at the end of it?” asked Gallagher.
“It’s not poetry,” said Dr. O’Grady, “and it doesn’t mean much. It’s the Latin for ‘Long live Bolivia.’”
Gallagher rose to his feet. He had been obliged to confess himself unable to write an inscription; but he was thoroughly well able to make a speech.